About Me: Uncle Chester, R.I.P.
I wrote this, to friends, on Wednesday, January 17, 2001. Some parts have been changed for public release.
From: "Paul Kroll" And so, after running a gas/service station for 40 or 50 or more years, in Lake Tomahawk Wisconsin (seven long, long hours outside of Chicago), my Uncle Chester passed away on Monday morning. I hadn't seen the man in 25 years, and mostly he's a name to me: but my mom is not doing well. Her sister, Amy, died just a few weeks ago. I've never even met her that I recall. This is a bit much all at once. She actually sounded sane on the phone when I last talked to her, and that's so unusual for her that it sent chills up my spine. I'll be driving my dad out there, and likely mom and dad back, which means 14 hellish hours out of my life. For all the rest of my days, whenever I'm getting gang-banged by a troop of cheerleaders, there'll be this 14 hour block there to balance the experience. Some of you may have heard this story, but because some of you have not, and because at some point, for each of us, there will come a time when stories are all that's left... (Wow. That is too damn deep for a Wednesday...) I feel the need to tell it. When I was ten, I was in Wisconsin, with mom and dad, visiting Uncle Chester and Aunt Rose. I remember thinking, at the time, that Chester looked like a piece of antique furniture. I was a perceptive kid. Anyhow, I was also a complete brat. This is annoyingly easy for my current friends to picture clearly. I was in fact complaining, yelling, I don't even know what about, just after we had finished a walk in a park... or a zoo... there were animals there or something. Don't recall that very clearly, because my memory is filled with the image of being pulled out of the car by my uncle, placed across the bumper, and getting spanked. Someone is about to make a comment on how getting spanked in public is no different from any other weekend in my life today, and I want to beat you to the punch. Anyhow, I shut up. He apologized to my parents for taking action against their child, and they seemed to think it was The Right Thing To Do. I have a definite memory of a strange mix of "well, there's someone who'll define limits, I can give him that" and "can't control him with whining: must be cute and apologetic, and soon the old man will once again be wrapped around my finger." Someone called the police and alleged child abuse, which even 25 years ago, just seems a little weird. I mean, it wasn't the worst I'd been hit by an adult (he didn't use a strap, hey), it was far more bruising to my pride than to my behind. After the sheriff talked to Chester, mom, and dad, he left. Didn't say word one to me, the hick, cheese-eating bastard. The rest of our stay was uneventful. It's Wisconsin, for crying out loud. I have no idea how we actually got out there, since no train goes anywhere near and mom and dad can't drive. I forgot about this by the time we got home. I talked to Chester once or twice, very short, "Hello, how are you" sort of conversations near one holiday or the other. I don't think I saw him again. Several months ago, when it was becoming clear that he was nearing the end, he was talking to my mom and asked her if I had ever forgiven him. This was a bit shocking to me, as, I said, this was simply not a really huge event in my life. It was a huge event to have happened in Wisconsin, where all other events show it in sharp relief, but that's it. I talked to Chester on Thanksgiving day, and told him I didn't even think about it these days and he should put it out of his mind. He thanked me, and apologized, and remarked how it'd be nice if I'd come up to see him in Wisconsin sometime when mom and dad went up there. Two things strike me (pardon the motif) about this story: 1) it's the only real memory I have of Chester, the central story and the final phone conversation, and 2) I don't know if I convey what I see as the central part of it at all well when I tell it. I've told this story and been told that I shouldn't have let him off the hook, that the old man did something mean and wrong and I shouldn't give him the out. That's not how I see it. The old man made a mistake, 25 years ago, that he's had eating at him ever since. Not every waking minute, nor the sort of soul-rending dread a person gets when they know they have done Real Wrong to someone, but the on-occasion, "by the way hot stuff, remember when you did THIS?!" that your conscience can pull on you. I sincerely doubt my words changed much of his perception of the event: he was obviously glad to get forgiven, but it was still something wrong. Bad people, I'm pretty convinced, really do sleep just fine at night, look in the mirror and see nothing wrong with themselves, no thing they've done that they're committed to not doing again. Decent people feel bad when they do something wrong, maybe even 25 years afterwards. Guess my point is: my uncle was a decent man. Thought you all should know. Sorry it takes me a novel to get to a point. :) Postscript The ride, there and back with my dad, was not in fact hellish. Mom came back with another uncle (Norman) a day later, and dad and I mostly raved on about how there were TREES all over the place. We're obvously long-time city-dwellers. The trees frighten us. :)
To: (Removed to keep friends from being spammed)
Subject: Life, the Universe, and Wisconsin
Date: Wed, 17 Jan 2001 06:06:01